Lightbulbs
by KipperMay
Summary: Gordo's having a bad night. Poor Gordo. slash and stereotype hate. reviews keep my heart beating.


A/N: Well. I'm not sure where this came from. But I've had writer's block for…months. And for some reason this unstoppered it. Weird.

So anyway. This story is just Gordo, having a bad night. Poor Gordo.

Also, just a couple more things—then, if I haven't scared you off, there _is_ an actual story to be read. I promise. First of all, there is a bit of just about R rated slashiness. So, you know. If it's not your thing…skedaddle. Still here? Cool beans. Nextly, any, like, racial and cultural issues raised by this story (which there are, though hopefully in a somewhat lighthearted way), should be read with this in mind: I think stereotypes suck big, fat hairy ass.

That being said, Gordo is not mine. How sad. But Scott is.

Um…Yay?

**Lightbulbs** by kmf

It is Friday night. I have finally managed to get the apartment to myself for one night—one night of quiet, of reading to my heart's desire. One roommate free night. And here I am, at the hardware store. Buying lightbulbs. Because the main fixtures in the living room and the bedroom seem to have gone out, and I have discovered, light is rather helpful in reading. So here I am. The sole employee in the lights department at Lowe's looks up warily as I trudge toward him. Then, of course, his face masks over into a characteristic salesperson grin as he flings himself toward me, sneakers squeaking on the tile. "Well hi!" he exclaims, as if he's surprised to see me here. To be honest, he probably is. "How can I help you?"

I sigh. "Lightbulbs."

When I say nothing further, his smile flickers, the veneer cracks slightly. Finally, he nods, and he's back, just barely stumbled really. "…All right, sir, what kind?"

Dear god. Good question. I'm tempted to tell him, _The kind that light up, you fucking moron,_ but I know it will get me nowhere. Plus, you know, he's kind of cute. His green eyes are shining in the fluorescent lights, and his teeth are incredibly white. And perfect. His hair is spiked jauntily, and soon my gaze is focused on it. I squeeze my eyes shut, push my hair out of my face, and concentrate. "Uhm…the light fixture. In my living room? There were two bulbs in it, I think. They went out."

The Lowe's guy chuckles, and points down an aisle. "You'll probably find them down there. Just pick the ones that look the most familiar. And if you bring 'em back here, I'll give you a few tips on the best way to keep 'em working a bit longer." Grin.

"Thanks."

Here I am, pushing open my front door for the Lowe's lightbulb guy, whose name I have discovered is Scott. He smiles at me, and edges past me into my dark, empty apartment. His broad, white teeth gleam even though I have no lights. Soon those teeth are biting at my lower lip, my earlobe, my jaw, and we are stumbling into the bedroom. I remember vaguely that I was going to read tonight as Scott pulls my t-shirt over my head. As I fall backward onto the bed, his helpful, grinning salesperson's mouth planting heavy kisses along my neck and collarbone, I stare at the ceiling and try to remember how to replace the lightbulb.

Then, as his long, tan fingers wrap around my dick, I hear him moan, "Oh, God, I love Jewish guys." _What?_

Pause. Exhale. I feel the moment deflate, collapse, and die painfully. "What?" I push him away from me and sit up, trying to look somewhat dignified despite the torrent of curls hanging in my eyes.

His expression is bewildered. "What?" I guess I stare for a long time, because he doesn't get any less bewildered. He kind of smiles, and shrugs.

Finally, I manage to stammer, "How did you—how do you—why would you think I'm Jewish?"

He chuckles, like he did when I didn't know anything about lightbulbs. Like he's rather the wiser human being in the room. "My hand _was_ just around your dick," he replies, as if it's obvious. "Plus," as if I need, or want, further evidence, "I mean, with a name like David Gordon…" His smile wavers for a moment. "_Aren't_ you Jewish?"

Here I am. It is early Saturday morning, 1:37am, according to the digital clock that glows red above from the microwave above the stove. I am holding the door open for a half-naked Scott, the bewildered-looking lightbulb salesguy from Lowe's. His clothes are, for the most part in a bundle in his arms. His nametag glitters innocently in the moonlight: "Hi! My name is Scott. Can I help you?" And in smaller letters: "Ask me about our Discount Savings Card!"

"You can't…say stuff like that!" I repeat vehemently, before shutting the front door with a snap.

A moment later, I hear through the door, _"What?"_

_Oh, Christ._

I collapse into a chair in my silent, moonlit living room, massaging my temples in an attempt to prevent the coming headache.

What a waste of a night.


End file.
